


Down In The Valley

by Kawaiibooker



Series: More Ghosts Than People [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Cowboys Being Soft, Fluff, Gen, Hunting, Introspection, M/M, Nature, No Spoilers, Pre-Slash, Road Trips, Zine: Wolf's Head, and last but not least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 10:11:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20256424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kawaiibooker/pseuds/Kawaiibooker
Summary: "It's familiar and yet different, Charles muses, those little details that are new the same ones that have shifted his life just so: the soft humming in his back, a second set of hoof prints beside Taima's, leading all the way back to a camp that, somewhere down the line, became something like home in his mind."A collection of calm moments before all hell broke loose.





	1. Noon

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-read by [PPitteArt](https://twitter.com/PPitteArt), [Prosodi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prosodi/pseuds/Prosodi) and [ghostsjogging](https://twitter.com/ghostsjogging).
> 
> Loosely set in Chapter 2-3.
> 
> This story is a collaboration with [PPitteArt](https://twitter.com/PPitteArt) for WOLF'S HEAD: A Red Dead Redemption Zine. Thank you for your trust <3

The forest is busy with subtle signs of life, its inhabitants rustling in the undergrowth unseen. Thick moss lines the faint path between the trees; every step the horses make is muffled and blends seamlessly into the nature around them.

Charles tilts his head back. His view fills with infinite shades of green, his lungs expand with every deep breath he takes. It's familiar and yet different, he muses, those little details that are new the same ones that have shifted his life just so: the soft humming in his back, a second set of hoof prints beside Taima's, leading all the way back to a camp that, somewhere down the line, became something like home in his mind.

“Not far now”, Charles tells Arthur behind him, watching him carefully guide his mare around a difficult patch of terrain and pat her neck afterwards. White as snow she is, carrying herself with an elegance perhaps lost on a bunch of rough-and-tumble outlaws like them.

She’s got a clever glint to her eye, however, and a lively temper that seems to serve Arthur well.

Said man squints at the high noon sun peeking through the leaves. “Better be quite some lake you're leadin' us to.” He pulls his hat lower, its shadow obscuring his eyes. “Feel like I'm cookin' alive in this coat.”

Part of sharing the road with Arthur are the complaints he mumbles under his breath – this, too, Charles tends to miss when he's out by his lonesome these days. He shakes his head lightly, says, “It's better than a lake”, taking smug pleasure in the look Arthur gives him, like he wants to ask for clarification but knows he won't get very far with it.

“Always one for mysteries, huh, Mr. Smith?”

Charles smiles a little. “Just preserving the bit of wonder there is, that's all.”

They've been traveling for a while now, crossing dozens of miles over the course of a few days with their eyes set on the slopes of the Grizzlies to the East. The promise of good game has driven them off the plains and up steep mountain paths; further and further they have traced their winding ways, past rushing rivers and cliffs beautiful and dangerous alike.

Eyes on a doe, Charles indulges in the peaceful sight of her grazing in the midday light. Alone, by the looks of it, although with spring long past, a fawn or two should be close-by, growing up bold without human interference.

Easy to track, easier still to shoot. Neither him nor Arthur move a muscle to disturb her.

They ride on. Eventually, moss gives way to gravel and stone and there, up ahead, sounds a distant crash that has Taima's ears picking up, her head following soon after. Charles runs his fingers through her mane. “Yeah, you know where we're going, huh?”

Arthur just huffs, busy reining in his startled mare with patient hands.

Even knowing what's coming doesn't curb the suddenness of the last line of trees falling away to reveal steaming plateaus. Shot through with white-foaming geysers and turquoise pools, ringed with yellows and orange: A kaleidoscope of color all the more bright against a backdrop of stone.

Yet Charles isn't looking at them but at Arthur, catching the gradual dawn of surprise on his face, eyes alight with awe. A hushed mumble of “Well I'll be damned” has Charles chuckling, his grin only widening as Arthur blinks against a waft of sulfur.

“Yeah, you get used to the smell.”

In a matter of minutes the horses are free to roam, their heavy saddles resting on the ground with the rest of their things. Making short work of his shirt and pants, Charles is down to his smallclothes and taking a step towards the largest of the hot springs when Arthur pipes up behind him.

“And you're _ sure _ it's safe for swimmin'?”

It's Charles's turn to give him a look, raised eyebrow and all. Arthur scratches his neck and nods, “Okay then”, the brim of his hat covering the sheepish smile on his lips.

Despite the clear skies the temperature is close to frigid this high up – Charles steps into the translucent water and nearly sighs with the perfect-warm bliss awaiting him. Years have come and gone since the last time he's been here, some good, some bad.

The discovery of these springs weighs on the side of good.

The rock at his back is even, made smooth by the water lapping at its edges for centuries. Arthur joins him, now hat-less and shivering in the cold. Taking a moment to dip his big toe in first regardless, he breathes a small “Oh” before wading in more generously, soon enough up to his chest in rich blue.

“Nice, isn't it?” Charles asks idly. There's something about being immersed in age-old structures that is uniquely satisfying to him: Ever since Blackwater, it's been a constant rush of precarious circumstances breeding precarious decisions but here, life is in constant motion yet predictable, a cycle of living and dying repeated season for season, year for year.

The water's shimmering surface reflects in Arthur's eyes, for once not hidden by his hat – perhaps he, too, is thinking of the past, his voice softer than usual when he says:

“A welcome change'a pace, that's for sure.”

Charles hums. He lets the water flow between his fingers, tries and fails to catch the bubbles floating to the surface from depths unknown. “Came through here, what, a decade ago? Taima almost jumped outta her skin because–”

With a loud _ boom _, one of the geysers spews out a pillar of thick steam.

“–yeah, _ that_.”

On cue, an alarmed snort can be heard. The horses come a-trotting like children to their mother's skirts and Charles huffs out a laugh, letting his spotted mare sniff at his outstretched hand to calm her down. Taima nips at the tips of his fingers teasingly, ears moving with excitement.

“Some things never change, huh?”

Arthur sounds amused, voice touched by laughter as his own horse prances around the pool with her tail held high, flag-like in the wind. Theatrical antics rather than fear in the face of danger? _ Maybe she does fit in after all_, Charles muses, settling in to enjoy the show.


	2. Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor content warning for hunting (and referenced animal death).

The fire reaches into the night sky with eager fingers, a flurry of sparks dancing with the stars above.

There's enough wood to keep it going through the small hours of the morning – Arthur throws another log in, watches as it's swallowed by smolders and the joyful crackling of flames. Dangling by a sturdy branch, strips of meat lose drop after drop of blood to the sizzling heat below.

Across from him, Charles is working over the antlers of the buck they caught. Way past his prime, his fur had been thick and flecked with gray, impressive though his crown had been this early into the season. A cunning bastard, to survive that long despite the harsh winters of the Grizzlies; even experienced hunters like them were led on a merry chase through forest green and sprawling meadows until he breathed his last amidst a field of wildflowers.

One arrow, square between the eyes. A clean kill is the only mercy they know how to grant.

Now, Charles's hands coax out the white of bone beneath grime and residue bark. Years of experience show in the movement of his fingers, quick and precise – his eyes shine in the firelight, keen with understanding of the animal's inner workings.

It's intimate, in a way, to watch him like this: a glimpse into his history Arthur shouldn't be allowed to see and yet is freely invited to. Most days, the notion that Charles lived most of his life alone eludes him. Too far is it from his own reality, his own past so crowded by unforgiving hands and human cruelty altogether different than the kind Charles must have experienced.

By the time Dutch came around, grand narratives and eloquent idealism fell like rain on a dusty field, yearning to bear crops again.

_ Ain't that a line for the poetry books,_ Arthur thinks and laughs. The glance Charles throws his way is full of question. _ What's so funny? _ The man must've truly gotten used to some measure of eccentricities because he just shrugs and continues at Arthur's headshake, starting to carve into the smooth piece of bone.

He leaves him to it, leans back on his palms to look up into the starry night. Constellations and planets and the North Star, the most radiant of them all and the loneliest, too – every step Arthur has made they have witnessed, each instance of joy and the inevitable mistake that snatched it away. A story without audience, decades worth of crumpled notes and faded photos and a journal with half its pages empty still.

Blackwater stains his most recent entries in inky blotches, drips from his hands like fresh blood; when he speaks it’s in a pensive murmur, voice nonetheless carrying over the fire's burning song:

“Can't recall a time I saw stars this bright. Puts ya right into place, don't it?”

Pausing to follow his line of sight, Charles's gaze is lost in the endless expanse of deep blue if just for a moment. Arthur wonders what he sees in them, if he feels as small and insignificant in their scattered presence as he does.

“Perhaps you didn't take the time to look.”

An observation as sure as strong hands on a bow, its string pulling taught, take it or leave it. Arthur hums. _ Perhaps. _

He lights a cigarette, the first drag curling deep and warm in his lungs. “Hosea tried to teach me how to read 'em, back in the day.” Exhaling, Arthur's smile is wrapped in nostalgia and smoke. _ The curious couple and their unruly son. _

“For whenever I'm lost, he said. Sat me down an' made me stare at them stars all night long, pointin' out this an' that. A better kind of compass, that's what he called it. Problem was, by the time I finished lookin', I'd already forgotten where I was s'pposed to start!”

Charles shakes his head but he's smiling, eyes on the slow progress of his knife as he chips away at the antler bit by bit. “And now?”

Arthur chuckles. “Stargazin' is about all I can do, 'm afraid.”

In the fire's warm halo they remain. Down to a stub, Arthur tosses his cigarette into the fire, checks the meat on the makeshift smoking rack. They can sustain themselves a few days on that buck alone, he reckons – no sense in disrupting the local herds further.

At least, not yet. There's never a moment Arthur isn't aware of the hungry mouths back at camp, those expectant gazes that turn more and more towards him, these days.

Up here, it's... less, just him and Charles and the horses, dozing with their heads hanging low. Charles, who’s blowing away the last of the bone dust and doesn't mind Arthur's curious glances, lowering his hand to let the faint light spill over his palm.

An animal's head, a bear or perhaps a wolf. It looks alive, almost, in the flickering shadows that flow over its little white teeth and into the sockets of its eyes. Arthur nods his appreciation and Charles's lips twitch, not quite smiling.

When the flames have died down to glowing embers, they sit side-by-side, a bottle of whiskey wandering there and back again between them. “My mother told me stories of the stars, too”, Charles tells him then, a quiet rumble in the night. He points at a cluster of stars, “See that?”, waits until Arthur spots them just over the ragged horizon of the mountain range.

“Three hunters and a dog chasing a bear. They kill it every winter, the leaves turning red with its blood and in spring, the hunt begins anew.”

Charles's fingers are busy fiddling with the figurine. Arthur takes another sip and watches the sky for him.

“When she was, well... I stayed up all night to look for it. The leaves were turning and winter wasn't far behind but I knew if I waited long enough, spring would return and so would the bear.”

Charles is looking at the bear in his hands, brushes his thumb over its pointed ears. Then he offers it to Arthur, answering his startled blink with a shrug.

“For when you're lost”, he says simply, embers in his eyes and starlight on his palm.


	3. Dawn

The valley is covered in low-hanging clouds and fog alike, flowing ethereal and weightless down the mountain slopes.

There's something muted about a morning greeted by sheets of rain and the gurgling of the percolator, slow to boil. Charles watches the drops drum against the window between sleepy blinks, the jaw-cracking yawn that creeps up on him only adding to his state of overall lethargy.

Gradually, the air fills with the smell of coffee and the promise of wakefulness.

Cold seeps through the wooden walls, held in check by the simmering heat of the stove. The Loft they call it, this little cabin on a hill that blends into the picturesque mountain view like it has always been there: a lucky find on a hunt forever ago and suspiciously well-kept, for all that Charles has seen it abandoned each time he's been through these parts.

One room, one bed, one set of cutlery, one pair of gloves tied together and hung on the wall, untouched – a collection of singularities since forgotten. The steps of the ladder leading up are worn with use but dusty, the observation deck featuring binoculars eventually set aside and never picked up again.

Whoever lived here must've been a lone wolf, just like him.

Charles runs a finger over the decorations carved into the windowsill. Birds and vines and there, the delicate arch of the violet iris growing beyond the doorstep; he isn't naive enough to imagine what happened to the person who immortalized them in such loving detail. The chances it was something good are slim in his musings and none in reality.

The weak light from outside casts everything in dim shadows. Mug filled to the brim and comfortingly warm between his hands, Charles glances over to the pile of blankets snoring away in the corner and breathes a soft huff. _ Good. _He goes about his day on silent feet, leaving behind a scrap of paper propped against Arthur's hat.

_ Coffee is fresh. CS _

His companion does show up eventually, a mess of unkempt hair and bleary eyes that peek over the narrow opening to the observation deck. Charles's pipe is raised in greeting, a smoke-filled breath exhaled towards the downpour that can't touch them, not here.

Arthur grumbles something akin to an acknowledgement and reappears mere moments later with his hat on and his journal in tow.

The world stretches below them like they're soaring on eagle's wings, swaying this way and that in the harsh winds. All color is washed away until only vague shapes remain in the mist: a stray cluster of trees, the jagged silhouette of the Grizzlies. All of nature's creations at a standstill, a day stopped in its tracks before it can properly begin.

As the storm clouds roam the sky, Charles smokes and Arthur sketches. It's comfortable like this, to share space without a single word spoken – to get lost in thought and wander without hurry. Not much else to do, no point in fighting the raw powers at play.

On days like these, the patter of falling rain and the gentle rasp of pencil on paper is enough.

Soon, they will turn their backs on this place and return to the gang. To Charles, the closeness of everything and everyone had felt near claustrophobic when he first joined but... there's comfort in the quiet strum of Javier's guitar, too, and the sight of Hosea reading the newspaper first thing in the morning. The tangible excitement of Mary-Beth's newest project and the light that catches in the dust Kieran brushes out of a horse's coat with gentle care.

A strangeness grown familiar, then. No more a lone wolf than a creature of habit, the first to rise and the last to give in, nobody left behind. To be part of something bigger than himself… It bothers Charles less than he'd expected.

Wood creaks under Arthur's boots as he pauses, shifts weight, scratches an itchy spot under his hat with his pencil. The pages of his journal, usually folded close to his chest like cards during a high-stakes match of poker, are open and bared for Charles to see. Before, he might’ve hesitated – would’ve heeded the tired instinct to stay away, stay distant – and yet he’s learned to listen for the silence beyond the words Arthur knows to wield like a weapon, that rare shyness of his that seemed so uncharacteristic at first glance. So Charles does, look that is, lets his gaze wander over swift lines and playful shading and thinks, _ that's how it is, huh? _

A storm in fragile graphite, paper-soft and devastatingly beautiful. 

Charles can't help but linger, a little too long to go unnoticed. Arthur doesn't mention it, a quiet sort of satisfaction hidden in the corner of his eyes.

It's that serene expression Charles thinks of, long after he's knocked out his pipe and the wind has carried away the last traces of Arthur's eraser. That little bit of peace that Arthur saw within those swirling skies and caught in his hands like summer's first firefly.

It's that drawing he finds, dated and signed and tucked in his bag behind his harmonica, neatly folded.


	4. Dusk

The beating of hooves on loose gravel thunders through Arthur’s veins like a second pulse, surging rabbit-quick and euphoric in his chest. Underneath him, his horse huffs and puffs in delighted bursts, head held high and ears pointed forward, a runaway train of muscle and sweat-slick fur. All around them the wind roars, the greens and grays and browns of the landscape blurring into one– 

No time to look back, no time to think and doubt and–

They take the last curve without hesitation; mere inches lie between them and certain death, with rough-hewn rock on the one side and a bottomless cliff on the other–

Action, reaction, only him and his horse and his senses–

– and they're through, out the canyon and past the final pair of trees like sentinels guarding the road and Arthur lets out the laughter trapped in his lungs, reckless and loud.

“Whoo! We finally got 'em, girl!”

He's never felt so _ alive._

Jittery with energy, his mare throws her head, feet light as clouds as she dances in the spotlight of his gushing praise. “Already makin’ me so proud, hm? My girl!” Arthur's heart is pounding in his throat, breath coming in hard pants; he wipes the sweat off his brow and, with a flourish, tips his hat to the duo in close pursuit.

“Thank you, ladies an’ gentlemen, thank you–”

Charles waves his hand around like he's physically wiping away Arthur's triumphant grin, growls, “You cheated, you bastard”, the words fighting the broad smile on his lips. Taima's body is hot enough to steam, the mare chewing on her bit something fierce. Secretly competitive, just like her rider.

Arthur’s eyes go wide, “Who, little ol’ me?” The picture of pure innocence.

He ducks away before Charles can push him off his horse. Chuckling, Arthur runs his palm over his hair; one glance at the setting sun and he decides to leave his hat off, tying it to the horn of his saddle instead.

“C'mon friend, a shortcut or two never hurt anybody. All part’a the fun!”

With an exasperated roll of his eyes, Charles points Taima towards their temporary home, the Loft but a far-away shadow rimmed with gold. Arthur clicks his tongue for his mare to keep up; the horses fall into a comfortable gait, loose-limbed and content after a good run.

They bicker amongst themselves like old friends and Arthur smiles, leans down to smooth out silky-white fur.

Through the valley they go, past grass glistening with dew and dots of red poppy. The air tastes clean after yesterday’s rain, the breeze carrying enough warmth to allow for rolled-up sleeves. Maybe tomorrow they can trek all the way up to Calumet Ravine and fish until their arms grow heavy.

“It could always be like this, y'know?” Arthur thumbs the edges of his hat, the old leather pliant under his touch. “It will be, someday.”

Charles's gaze is already on him when he looks up – he's got that fond little twist to his mouth, that softness around his eyes that he seems to hide less and less, day for day. “Yeah?”

“Mhm”, Arthur hums. Ahead, the sun dips ever-closer to the horizon and there, with violet clouds in a pink-tinged sky, Arthur spreads his arms and dares to dream beyond tomorrow.

“It's out there, out West. A future for all of us, for Mary-Beth an' her stories, for Dutch an' Hosea, if his lungs don't get him first. For– for John an' Abigail an' little Jack. Somewhere the Pinkertons can't reach, where the past won't matter...”

Shining, glorious crimson: dusk bleeds to night behind the mountains and Arthur's hands drop to his lap, over his pocket where the shape of the bear figurine is a comforting weight. A wish in the night, witnessed by the stars and bound in bone. “Dutch'll see us through”, he says, quieter now. “He always does.”

A hand clasps his shoulder, as steady as Charles's presence by his side. “Better start on those ranching skills of yours, then.”

Arthur breathes a laugh, soft and genuine. “Oh fuck off. I'm tryin' to have a moment here. B'sides–”

Charles raises an eyebrow.

“–you'll be right along with me in the dirt. Hell, for all we know, ranchin' will be the one thing I got ahead'a you!”

Arthur's grin is bright, only dimming when the other doesn't reply immediately. Taima comes to a halt at Charles's command and so does his own horse, a few steps ahead.

“Charles?”

Whatever put that pensive frown on his face passes; Charles watches the last light glimmer in the distance and asks: “Out West, huh?”

The tender longing in his voice is the same Arthur clings to, that flimsy thread that threatens to slip out of his hands entirely and yet never breaks. Collecting his reins, he motions for his mare to walk on.

“Might be worth stickin' around for, don't y'think?”

And a moment later, Charles follows.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally published as "Down In The Valley" in WOLF'S HEAD: A Red Dead Redemption Zine! All proceeds went to First Nations Development Institute.
> 
> I'm sorry for the lack of updates with my RDR fics. I have to admit I've lost my inspiration for it :( maybe I can write some more in the future, but for now I hope y'all enjoy this story <3
> 
> [tumblr](https://kawaiibooker.tumblr.com) / [twitter](https://twitter.com/kawaiibooker)


End file.
